


Magic and the Marquess

by AriadneKurosaki



Category: Bleach
Genre: Background ByaHisa, Background GinRan, Background HitsuKarin, Byakuya grudgingly stans it, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Historical Fantasy, Rangiku openly stans it, Romance, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28533729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AriadneKurosaki/pseuds/AriadneKurosaki
Summary: Ichigo, the Marquess Kurosaki, wields magic prickly and volatile, hard to control and prone to explosions.And thenshearrives, and his black fire saysours.
Relationships: Kuchiki Rukia/Kurosaki Ichigo
Comments: 16
Kudos: 96





	Magic and the Marquess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hesesols](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hesesols/gifts).



> This story is vaguely based in a historical timeframe not unlike Regency England. However, the historical accuracy of this fic is questionable at best. A note: Isshin is Isshin Shiba, Duke of Karakura; Ichigo's title as Marquess Kurosaki is a courtesy title. According to Debrett's, "the eldest son of a duke, marquess, or earl may use one of his father's peerage titles by courtesy providing it is of a lesser grade than that used by his father." 
> 
> Rukia uses the title "Lady Rukia" as a courtesy title.

He’s always been told that there’s no such thing as soulmates. Certainly not here, where debutantes with magic and breeding are married off to young men with money and the right house names. It happens young, _very_ young sometimes; Karin is already married, and she’s four years younger than him. Her husband treats her well, at least, and his sister seems to be happy and in love with the Right Honorable Earl Hitsugaya.

Yuzu’s magic is modest, but then – she’s the youngest of the Shiba family, if only by a few minutes, and Isshin, Duke of Karakura, has a much better prize to dangle in front of whatever house he wishes to ally with: Ichigo, the Marquess Kurosaki. Of marriageable age and with _strong_ magic, Ichigo doesn’t like being reduced to those qualities, but he knows that’s what everyone else cares about.

But his father doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to marry _him_ off. Ichigo wonders why but doesn’t ask because he doesn’t want to find himself tied to a woman he doesn’t know and doesn’t care about, breeding new nobles with fire magic.

And then _she_ arrives, and everything changes.

_January_

The Urahara School for the Magical Arts is deceptively small from the outside – it takes up no more than a single townhome in one of the richest parts of the city. But the unassuming, painted black door opens into a paradise. To Ichigo, this place has been his second home for five years, a place to harness his magic and strengthen it.

Unfortunately for him, _Ichigo’s_ magic is – prickly. His ability to call upon his magic is consistent, but using it is scattershot and even hostile, as if the magic is a living thing inside of him that wants to test him at every opportunity. It takes an entire year of training before Ichigo can be trusted to practice his black fire in a room with anyone other than an instructor. Even now, at the age of twenty-one, his magic is hard to manipulate and seems to _dislike_ a few of his fellow students. One or two have even emerged from training sessions in the same room sporting singed hair or burned-off eyebrows. There’s at least one student who still can’t be in the same room as him when he practices.

So when Ikumi introduces Ichigo’s class to a petite, dark-haired woman in ice blue, Ichigo expects more of the same.

“Lady Rukia Kuchiki will be studying with us from now on,” Ikumi announces sternly on a bright, sunny morning in early January. “Lady Rukia previously attended the Academy of the Magical Arts to the north, and her family has recently taken up residence here in the city. I expect you will make her welcome.”

Next to him, Keigo Asano leers and Ichigo surreptitiously stomps on his foot. “She’s the Duke’s sister-in-law, you _ass_ ,” Uryuu hisses from Keigo’s other side. “Show some respect.”

“Lord Kurosaki. You will be Lady Rukia’s companion for the day. Show her around the school. She will be joining your classes,” Ikumi orders, and Ichigo takes a deep breath.

“Miss Ikumi, my magic—”

Ikumi just snorts. “Consider it extra practice, Lord Kurosaki.”

After introductions are over, Rukia finds him and Ichigo realizes just how _tiny_ she is. “Lord Kurosaki,” she says solemnly, and when her big, violet eyes look at him Ichigo feels like he’s being _judged_. He also thinks he could fall into them and drown, and not regret it.

But there is etiquette for this part at least, etiquette that his late mother drilled into him since he could walk. “Lady Rukia,” he greets politely, and bows over her hand. “Please, allow me to show you to our first class.”

“Thank you,” she says, equally polite. Ichigo doesn’t offer his arm – the hallways are a little narrow for that – but he’s careful to keep to a pace that she, dressed in the trappings of her station and gender, can manage.

“You’ll join me for my classes today,” Ichigo explains as he guides her down a hallway that’s longer than it _should_ be. “How does your magic manifest?”

Rukia is silent for a long moment before she says quietly, “Ice. It manifests as ice and illusion magic.”

And Ichigo thinks with a stifled groan, _just perfect. My magic is going to try and eat her alive._

They step inside a fire- and water-proof classroom with six other students already inside. “This is a combat class,” Ichigo explains quietly as Professor Hisagi jerks his head toward an empty corner of the room. “There’s a barrier along the red lines on the ground; your belongings will be safe outside of it.”

Rukia nods silently and puts her bag into a cubby along the wall. Ichigo turns his face away to give her a modicum of privacy as she removes her outer layer of clothing. The ice blue silk jacket, with its slender sleeves and tailored curves, is taken off first, followed by the outer skirt with its delicate embroidery. She’s left in a plain dress of tougher, ivory-hued fabric that covers her arms and emphasizes the modest curves of her breasts with gathered fabric – something that was less noticeable with her jacket on.

Though the skirt is perfectly appropriate it’s clear that the curves of her hips are _less_ modest, and Ichigo fights back a blush. He focuses instead on the fact that she’s wearing good, magic-resistant fabric and practical shoes. His shirt and trousers are made of similar material. Ichigo removes his tailored, forest green wool jacket and hangs it on a hook on one wall.

“My magic can be…tricky,” he warns her, and Rukia’s lips quirk for the first time. “It doesn’t seem to like certain people.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Rukia says flatly.

But when Ichigo summons it, for the first time in his memory his magic _purrs_. She raises an eyebrow at him and he wonders if she feels – whatever his magic is doing. But Rukia already has ice dancing at her fingertips and she wastes no time flinging it in his direction, where a lick of his fire melts it, but she has another round for him: a wave of ice that acts as a shield and weapon both as it shoots towards him. The black fire melts it but dissipates before it reaches her with a flick of his wrist.

It’s – incredible. His magic purrs through his veins like a pleased cat and comes at his command. They spar like that for some time, neither getting a real advantage over the other. Soon Ichigo finds himself grinning, practically dancing on the balls of his feet as he dodges ice and sends spirals of fire toward her. Rukia unbends from her solemnity after a time, and though her smile is smaller than his must be, she seems to be having fun as well, if the occasional laughter that bubbles up out of her is anything to go by.

Then an uncontrolled blast of magic from another student heads for her and Ichigo cries out a warning even as his fire suddenly flings itself around her, forming a spinning pillar that blocks and burns away the lightning magic. There’s a scream from one of the other students, and Hisagi hurries over, hand at the ready to douse it.

It’s unnecessary – the fire comes back to him as he pulls it, and Ichigo flicks his hands to dissipate it entirely. She’s unharmed, but Rukia’s chest heaves as she looks at him before she straightens up and takes a deep breath. “Lord Kurosaki,” she says far more calmly than he expects, “does your magic often do that?”

He just shakes his head dumbly. “Never,” he finally chokes out, a little awkwardly. “It’s never done that.” Because magic isn’t _sentient_. It can’t speak or think on its own. But Ichigo swears that just as he pulled the magic back, his did. _She’s ours_ , it said, so clearly that Ichigo is surprised no one else heard it. _Ours._

“Kurosaki, what the hell was that?” Hisagi demands. 

Ichigo rubs the back of his neck nervously. “I’m not sure, Professor Hisagi. I saw Ripart’s magic heading for Lady Kuchiki and I tried to redirect it.”

Hisagi frowns at him, but says only, “Be careful,” and stalks over to the student who lost control. Ichigo tunes out the dressing-down he’s being given.

Rukia raises an eyebrow at him. “Well?” she asks. “The class isn’t over yet, is it?”

He straightens up and their eyes meet, warm amber to amethyst. “You’re fine sparring with me again, after that?” Ichigo asks quietly.

The woman before him just tosses her hair back and raises a hand, ice sparkling once more at her fingertips. “Don’t worry, Lord Kurosaki. I’m not going to have a case of the _vapors_ ,” she snarks.

And Ichigo grins.

Lord Kurosaki is an interesting man, she decides. His magic feels – different than he claimed it would. When he flings it at her, it feels satisfied and powerful, not volatile and enraged as he claimed it would. When some fool student in the classroom misdirects his magic and lightning streaks her way, Ichigo’s surrounds her like a tornado, searing hot but not burning as it shields her. Black fire isn’t _meant_ to be used as a shield, is meant to incinerate all in its way, but Rukia _swears_ she hears it whisper to her. She swears it says _ours._

But all she knows about Kurosaki is that he’s a student like her and a nobleman, formally known as Marquess Kurosaki and the son of the Duke of Karakura. When the professor, a Mister Shuhei Hisagi, dismisses them, Ichigo gathers his things and waits for her as she ties on her ice blue overskirt and the matching silk jacket. “I’ll show you around the school,” he offers, voice low. “I have a block of free time now and then a class in shielding.”

Rukia blinks up at him. “ _Just_ in shielding?” she asks. “At the Academy they always combine that class with combat.”

“Mental shielding,” he clarifies. “It’s required for every student who lives in the city.”

“Ah,” she says, and follows him through the hallways. He’s not the best tour guide, but he points out each of the classrooms on that floor before leading her up a wide, carpeted set of stairs onto the next floor.

“The dining hall is to the left,” he explains as he stops in the stairwell. “Most students eat their noontime meal here, and sometimes afternoon tea as well. To the right are the administrators’ rooms.”

She nods, briefly, and follows him up another flight of stairs. She catches him looking back at her once or twice, as if to make sure she’s keeping up. “And the Headmaster?” Rukia asks. She has yet to meet the man, a _Lord Urahara_ who’s said to be talented but a little shady.

“He’s on this floor,” Ichigo says as they arrive on the third floor of the building. “His office is all the way at the end of that hallway.” Then he glances up. “There are bedrooms on the next floor, for students who are living here full time. But if you’re up to it, I can show you something else.”

It sounds a little suspicious, but she waves a hand. “Lead on, my Lord.”

“Ichigo,” he says as he takes her up two more flights of stairs. The stairs are narrower here, and the oriental carpeting is worn.

“I’m Rukia, then.” It’s a little improper to give him permission to call her by her name rather than Lady Rukia, but – they’re already alone together, which in the most conservative circles would be cause for a duel or an engagement. But her magic is so _settled_ around him. She follows Ichigo all the way up to the top of the townhome, where he throws open a pair of doors.

“Oh,” she says softly, and steps onto the long, wide balcony that overlooks the courtyard. They’re five stories above the city and the air is balmy and clean. Surprisingly so – it was much colder when she walked into the school earlier.

“There are heating spells set up to keep things warm,” Ichigo says – and that explains it. “And a rain shield.”

“Useful,” Rukia comments. Despite the magic, there is a cool breeze blowing around them and the sun is bright over their heads. It’s so beautiful that she throws her head back as she stands there, basking in the light. Beneath them is a courtyard, covered in snow and sparkling wherever ice has formed.

She flushes when she realizes that he’s watching her, lips slightly parted and eyes soft. Quickly, she schools her expression. “Thank you for the tour, Lord Kurosaki,” Rukia says politely. “I believe you mentioned a shielding class?”

“It’s Ichigo,” he says again, and checks his pocket watch. “And yes, we should walk back downstairs.”

He doesn’t touch her, but she feels his warmth as they walk back to the classrooms together, and when the professor assigns them to other partner for the mental shielding exercise, Rukia watches as a young woman with auburn hair and an unfashionably generous bosom simpers at him.

 _Ah_ , she thinks, but then watches as, instead of flirting with the pretty girl as she expected, Ichigo turns on his heel and speaks with the professor in low tones before leaving the classroom altogether.

“Lady Rangiku Ichimaru,” her partner introduces herself. “And you must be Lady Rukia. My husband said there was a new arrival at the school.”

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Rukia says softly as they settle across from one another. It’s a little surprising to see a married woman in school, she thinks. No one at the Academy was married.

“I came into my magic late,” Rangiku says, and smirks when Rukia’s cheeks flush. “You’re not shielding properly.”

So Rukia practices her shielding with Rangiku, whose magic was late and whose hair is strawberry blonde and pulled into an elaborate array of loops and whirls. She tries not to think about Ichigo as she does so, but her partner’s smile is a little too knowing. She shores up her shields, picturing the malleable sphere that her previous instructors taught her to create.

Ichigo doesn’t come back until the class has been dismissed, and then he is at her side, calmly – too calmly – offering to show her to the next classroom. Rangiku winks at her as she leaves.

“Are you unwell, Ichigo?” she finds herself asking as he walks her to their next class, _applied magic._ It’s the art of turning fire magic to warmth and light, of turning ice to cool air and preservation. In this time of peace, it’s the most practical class of all, Rukia thinks.

His eyes are golden as they look into hers. His hand brushes against hers in the narrowness of the hallway and something _settles_ , like the air after a storm; his eyes darken and warm. “I’m fine now, Rukia,” he says, and she wonders at the way her magic burbles contentedly next to his.

Her new professor seems to see it, when Ichigo introduces them; in a Scottish brogue she says archly, “I see you’ve finally found yourself a partner for this class, Lord Kurosaki. Very well; perhaps there will be fewer _explosions_.” The classroom is set with a series of tables, each with two chairs, and Ichigo leads her to one close to the front of the classroom. There are other students there already, chatting or already sitting quietly and taking notes.

There are a dozen women in this classroom, and Rukia can see them watching her, watching Lord Kurosaki; but he just pulls her chair out for her and ignores them.

“Explosions?” Rukia asks when they are settled at a table together. When the tips of his ears turn red she teases, “Is your magic so very fractious when it’s forced to do something useful?”

She doesn’t expect his eyes to darken, or for him to say, voice low and rough, “It was satisfied enough being useful earlier.” Suddenly Rukia can feel the memory of his fire around her, not burning but protecting. Not destructive but possessive. The blush of her cheeks is a match for his ears, and Rukia is grateful when their instructor calls the class to attention and begins speaking about a technique for food preservation that she hasn’t yet used.

When there isn’t a single _explosion_ from Ichigo’s magic at all, their instructor raises an eyebrow in pleased surprise and, Rukia notices, casts a grateful glance upwards.

The next morning, she meets with Lord Urahara, and he is – not what she expected. _Shady_ is an inadequate term: the man is eccentric, with a fan in his hand in the middle of January and a beat-up, striped hat covering unfashionably long blond hair. He’s wearing a dark green house coat and loose dark trousers; it’s borderline inappropriate, but his wife, Lady Yoruichi, is lounging in the room with him and Rukia settles gingerly on a chair covered in floral upholstery.

The headmaster’s office reminds her of a bookshop: floor to ceiling shelves line the walls to either side of her, and they are filled almost to groaning with books. To Rukia’s left is a ladder leading up to the very top shelves. Behind Urahara, whose desk is filled with piles of papers, is an enormous window – no, an illusion, Rukia sees when she focuses. The very edges of the window blur and sparkle with the tell-tale signs of illusory magic.

“Lady Rukia,” Urahara greets cheerfully. “Come to discuss your class list, I expect.”

“I have,” she agrees, and isn’t surprised when he has to dig around in the piles around them before he finds a slip of paper and pushes it across the desk to her.

“We’ve made some adjustments based on your instructors’ observations,” Yoruichi speaks up from the chaise on which she is lounging, peach-hued dress covered up with a close-fitting jacket.

She reads over the list. “The mind shielding class is with a different instructor,” Rukia observes.

“The class you attended yesterday was getting full,” Urahara explains, smile hidden behind his fan. “We’ve made some changes to balance things out.”

There is a little more small-talk, but Rukia’s first class of the day is in just a few minutes, and she excuses herself to walk down to her classroom. As she reaches the door she feels a little prickle of magic, and so she isn’t surprised to find Ichigo there, leaning up against a wall in his jacket and trousers. “Making sure I don’t get lost?” she asks, eyebrow arched.

He just straightens up and bows properly over her hand. “It’s only your second day, after all.” But his magic brushes, warm and certain, against hers, and Rukia wonders what _her_ magic is telling him. “It’s telling me you need shielding practice,” Ichigo says, and grins at her.

“It’s not nice to _snoop_ in a woman’s head,” she huffs and strengthens her shields, and he just laughs.

“You’re practically broadcasting. What did they teach you in that Academy?” he drawls. As they walk down the stairs, though, his eyes meet hers briefly and he says, “Ask me again in a few months, what your magic says.”

She blinks at that, but his ears are red again and so are her cheeks.

“Let me see your class list,” Ichigo demands, and tugs it from her fingers before she can protest. “Oh, good. Urahara moved you to the other shielding class with me.”

“You refused to attend that class yesterday,” Rukia points out.

He glances at her. “Urahara made some _adjustments_ just before you got here. One of them didn’t agree with my magic.”

“You speak of your magic as if it’s sentient, my L- Ichigo.”

His voice is rough again. “Yeah, well. I’ve learned to trust what it tells me.”

And Rukia keeps her mind carefully shielded as she wonders just what it’s telling him about her.

From that day forward, their classes frequently overlap, although not always. Ichigo silently insists on walking her to each of her classes regardless, a tall shadow whose magic makes hers coo and purr. But she doesn’t see him outside of the school for six weeks, not until after the Season begins.

_March_

“Take her hem up another half-inch,” a soft voice murmurs behind her. Rukia glances back; her sister is watching as the modiste pins the hem of the pale silk dress that she wears. “She’ll trip otherwise.”

“Yes, Lady Kuchiki,” the modiste agrees, and Rukia suppresses a sigh. It’s been _hours,_ getting gowns pinned and picked at, selecting trims that she doesn’t much care about and colors that need to be carefully calibrated not to offend. It’s fashionable to be pale, but sometimes she wishes it wasn’t fashionable to look quite so much like a ghost. Most days, she wishes it was fashionable for women to wear trousers instead of these layered, heavy silk dresses over magic-resistant linen. At least it’s fashionable to carry a silk fan – Rukia can hide her expressions behind _those_.

“Will the lavender gown be ready in time for the Shiba soiree?” Hisana asks. “It’s in three days, and my sister doesn’t have anything appropriate.”

The modiste is on the ground with her pin cushion and ruler, so it takes her a moment to answer. “The lavender gown can be ready, but…” She pauses and glances up at Rukia. “Would it offend the Duke of Karakura if your sister wears plum? The plum gown would be more flattering for an evening event,” the slender woman points out.

 _Karakura_ , Rukia thinks. She’s left the events of the Season entirely in her sister’s hands, and her first outing is an event where Lord Kurosaki – Ichigo, the man whose magic said _ours_ – is sure to be in attendance.

“Please show me the plum, then,” Hisana agrees, and settles back into the cushions.

“Lady Rukia, please allow me to help you change,” the modiste offers. She helps Rukia down from the low pedestal and behind the folding screen in a corner of the room. Rukia stands still as she’s unlaced from the pale dress and Madam Smythe helps her into the unhemmed plum one.

When she’s back on the pedestal Hisana takes in a deep breath, and promptly covers her mouth with a handkerchief to cough. “Oh, yes. Madam Smythe,” she says when she has finished. “That neckline is _perfect_. I have just the jewelry for it.”

Rukia doesn’t know what jewelry her sister could be talking about, but she just nods and allows herself to be prodded and pinned.

The townhouse is stiflingly hot despite the fact that it’s only late February. There are several inches of snow on the ground outside, but here the press of bodies and the heat from the fireplaces and fire magic conspire to make him want to throw himself into a snowdrift. Ichigo tugs uneasily at the collar of his dress shirt and wishes it was fashionable for men to use fans. He also wishes for the ability to use ice magic.

“His Grace, the Duke Kuchiki and Her Grace, the Duchess Kuchiki,” a voice booms, and Ichigo turns as an elegant gentleman in evening dress steps into the ballroom. At his side, arm tucked into his, is a beautiful woman who looks like an older, softer version of Rukia. “Lady Rukia of House Kuchiki,” the voice continues, and Rukia follows her brother-in-law and sister.

Ichigo _really_ wishes he had the ability to use ice magic. Rukia _shimmers_ in plum, the color bringing out the shade of her eyes even from here, and her curves are even more apparent in the soft silk she wears than they were in the tougher, magic resistant fabrics for school. Soft fabric clings to her breasts, just barely hiding their curves, and gathers high at her waist before spilling into a skirt that sways as she steps forward. There’s something sparkling on her dress; from here he can’t see what, only that it gleams in the lamplight.

The cap sleeves of her dress expose her arms and she isn’t wearing evening gloves – a bold choice, but not surprising for someone with such strong magic. He’s never wanted to touch something so much as he wants to feel how soft her arms are. He finds himself moving towards her without thinking about it, but then – he remembers that _here,_ he needs an introduction, even though they have known each other for almost two months.

Damnit.

And then Rangiku swans by and takes him by the arm. “Allow me, Lord Kurosaki,” she says with a grin and a toss of strawberry blonde locks as she tugs Ichigo along beside her. He goes willingly, silently blessing her for her perceptiveness. “I can’t let the old bats’ rules keep you from our Rukia,” she says, voice low but still full of laughter.

 _The old bats_ are the dowagers who still think things should be like they were in _their_ heyday, when women were forbidden from doing magic and needed special permission to do anything more than take a turn around the ballroom. They’ve lost influence over time but they still prevail during the Season, when a wrong word could still ruin a girl’s reputation.

“Thank you, Lady Ichimaru,” he says. Then they’re in front of the Kuchiki family, and Ichigo straightens up. Behind her much taller head of house and sister, Rukia is looking at him, her cheeks already flushed. Or maybe it’s just the heat.

“Your Grace,” Rangiku greets, and lets go of Ichigo so that she can curtsy, bright blue gown sweeping out around her. As a Viscountess she’s much lower ranked than Byakuya Kuchiki and his wife, and Ichigo outranks her as well – but for his purposes, she’s _married_. She can make an introduction without causing a scandal.

Ichigo gives a proper, shallow bow. His magic seethes until he catches another glimpse of Rukia, now standing to her sister’s left. It calms immediately but then reaches, sparks visible on his hand before he clenches it to douse them. No one but her seems to notice.

“Lady Ichimaru. And Lord Kurosaki,” Byakuya says calmly. “I must thank your father for the invitation when I see him. How are your sisters?”

He remembers, after a moment: Byakuya has met his sisters before, when Karin and Yuzu made their debuts the previous year. “They’re well, your Grace; thank you for asking.”

Byakuya glances at Rangiku and then at his sister-in-law. “Allow me to introduce my sister, Lady Rukia Kuchiki,” he says, as Rukia steps forward.

Ichigo meets her eyes before he bows over her hand properly. Neither of them wears gloves, and when their hands touch his magic hums beneath his skin, eager but contented. He wonders again what _her_ magic is saying. “Lady Rukia,” he says, voice low and even when he straightens up.

“Lord Kurosaki,” she murmurs in return, and curtsies shallowly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you formally.”

“Do you have permission to dance this evening?” He watches her cheeks turn pink, and under the watchful eye of her guardians does his best to look politely interested. It’s hard when his magic is so eager.

“His Grace has generously granted his permission,” Rukia murmurs.

“Will you dance with me, then?” he asks. Then, just a little teasingly, “I promise not to step on your feet.” A look passes between them; for weeks it has been their magic that danced.

“I would be honored to dance with you, Lord Kurosaki,” she says quite properly, and Ichigo glances at her brother – who takes his wife’s gloved hand and leads her to the dance floor without a word.

Rangiku just snickers and waves them off before she sweeps away to find her husband.

Rukia places her hand on his arm. “Pretending not to know you is ridiculous,” she mutters as Ichigo leads her to the dance floor. “We take classes together nearly every day!”

He hums under his breath, wishing her fingers were on his bare skin again instead of his jacket. “It’s stupid,” Ichigo agrees as they take their place on the dance floor together. His hand rests lightly on her waist and Ichigo can feel how _small_ she is against his hand, how warm she is despite ice being her element. This close the sparkles on her dress resolve themselves into delicate embroidery and beading, a pattern of flowers that suits her well. Around her neck is a necklace set with marquis-cut crystals, only adding to her sparkle. “Dance with me,” he murmurs as the music starts.

Her magic sparks cool against him, a relief in the heat of the room, and they move together in the familiar pattern, spinning on the polished floor. They are surrounded by other couples; his sister and her husband are across the room, gazing at one another with adoration. Rukia’s sister is a vision on her husband’s arms.

But Ichigo has eyes only for _her_ , and he leads her through not one but two dances. He would dance with her a third time, but her hand squeezes his forearm in warning. _Right – the dowagers._ “Will you have something to drink with me?” he asks instead as they leave the dance floor.

His Grace Isshin, Duke of Karakura isn’t cheap: the spread of finger foods just off the ballroom is plentiful and there are half a dozen waitstaff with trays of filled glasses roaming the space. A waiter offers a tray of champagne flutes and Ichigo takes two, handing the first to Rukia. It’s barely chilled, though, and when the waiter steps away Ichigo makes a face. He’s surprised when Rukia’s fingertips touch his glass, but suddenly it’s pleasantly cold in his hand. “Thanks,” he says quietly. “The townhouse is like a furnace whenever my father has a party.”

“Hm,” she says thoughtfully, and takes a sip of the sparkling wine. “He didn’t want to employ an ice witch?”

Ichigo just shrugs and as the room begins to fill with guests seeking something other than dancing, guides her from the room with a hand lightly touching the small of her back. “I try not to ask too many questions,” he mutters. But a wash of cold drifts over him, radiating up through his hand and into the rest of his body, and he relaxes into it, some of his irritation dampened. His magic is practically singing for hers.

They’ve wandered, he realizes, from the ballroom and into a parlor, one set up for those guests who need a break from the crowded ballroom. There’s no one using it despite the cushioned, cream-hued chaises and the comparatively low lighting. “It’s a little quieter here,” he murmurs as he leads her to one of the chaises.

A dark eyebrow quirks, but Rukia settles next to him on the chaise, magic sparking between them once more. “Aren’t you worried about what the dowagers will say?” she asks after a moment. They aren’t _quite_ touching.

“We’re out in the open,” Ichigo points out. “But if you’d like to go back into the ballroom, we can.” He doesn’t want to, though. It’s quiet, here in the parlor, and her pinky is brushing lightly against his where their hands are resting on the pale fabric.

“No,” she murmurs, and sips her champagne. Rukia changes the subject, then: “You have a lovely home, Lord Kurosaki.”

Ichigo smirks. “It’s my father’s home. And it’s _Ichigo_ , remember? Thought I told you that the first day.”

Her cheeks flush prettily under the lights. “You did,” she admits. “But that was in school.”

“I’d like you to call me Ichigo wherever you’re comfortable,” he says, and he can feel the heat in his cheeks. They quickly shift further apart when they hear voices coming in from the other room, but her smile lingers in his thoughts the rest of the night, and it’s all Ichigo can do not to ask her for a third dance.

Instead, when the other guests are too occupied to notice, he says, “Save me a dance at the next ball.”

“That’s very forward of you,” she says back, but there’s another smile tugging at her lips.

_May_

Five months into her studies at the Urahara School, Rukia still hasn’t fully gotten the hang of mental shielding, and her professor throws up her hands late one May afternoon and snaps, “Practice on your own, Kuchiki! I don’t know _what_ those fools at the Academy taught you, but your shielding is as clumsy as a toddler’s.”

The insult makes her cheeks burn hot, but they’re not as hot as the fire she feels from Ichigo, whose magic is reaching for her again. She’s an adult, a _lady_ , and so Rukia sits calmly the rest of the class before walking out sedately so that her classmates don’t see her crack. But Ichigo – he’s there in an instant, his body blocking her much smaller one so that their classmates _don’t_ see her face. When they’re gone, he offers, “Come up to the dining room for tea with me. You could use a cup.”

“I’d rather go somewhere that I won’t have people gawking at me for being called a _toddler_ ,” she mutters, and she _doesn’t cry_ , she doesn’t.

“We can do that too,” he murmurs, and with a hand beneath her elbow he gets her up the stairs to the dining room level. But instead of steering her there, they turn and suddenly they’re walking through another door that Rukia would swear hasn’t been there for the past five months. “Wait here, I’ll get you some tea,” Ichigo orders, and leaves her there.

It’s a room that shouldn’t exist, Rukia thinks: a solarium on the third floor of a townhouse in the middle of the city. The air smells clean and somehow _soft_ , thanks to the greenery around her, and the couches and tufted velvet stools look soft too. Panels of glass curve over the ceiling and the far wall, letting the late afternoon sunlight in. Rukia looks for the tell-tale signs of illusion magic, for the sparkles and shimmer that would show that this room is windowless and gray but doesn’t find them.

“Urahara swears the room was here when he took over as headmaster,” Ichigo says from behind her. He has an entire tea set with him, gold-rimmed and painted with delicate blue flowers. He sets down the tray on the low table between the couches, and then reaches back; Rukia hears the snick of a lock and raises an eyebrow.

“Locking me in?” she asks, and Ichigo’s snort is decidedly ungentlemanly.

“Locking other people _out_. Rangiku saw me with the tea and she’s too curious,” he corrects. Without waiting for her, he drops down onto the dark blue velvet couch and pours tea for them both, adding sugar and a drop of milk, just the way she likes it.

Rukia sits beside him, lavender skirt spreading out around her, and accepts the cup he holds out. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

Ichigo waits until the tea is half-gone to say, “I’ll tutor you in mental shielding, if you want.”

She glances sidelong at him. He’s draped against the back of the couch, all long limbs in magic-resistant clothes and sunset-bright hair that’s falling into his eyes. He looks relaxed, but his magic buzzes against hers, close and warm. “Looking for an excuse to get me alone, Ichigo?” she asks.

He’s up in a heartbeat, closer to her and eyes darting down to her lips. “Is it working?” Ichigo asks, dark amber eyes meeting hers.

Her teacup is forgotten on the tray as her heart stutters in her chest. “It might be,” she chooses to say, and watches the smirk play over his lips.

“Ask me again about your magic,” he says, still far too close for propriety.

Rukia remembers that second morning in the school, when he said _ask me again in a few months about your magic_. And she murmurs, “What does my magic say to you?” It sounds ridiculous, because magic doesn’t _speak_ , but – but.

His forehead touches hers lightly. “It says _home_ ,” Ichigo whispers, a secret just between the two of them. “It says _she is home_.”

 _Oh._ Her cheeks are flushed bright and warm for an entirely different reason than her earlier embarrassment. “That first day,” she whispers back. “When your magic wrapped around me, it whispered _ours_. I heard it.”

“Me too.” Then his lips are touching hers, soft and just a little chapped and tasting of sugared tea.

It’s something, she thinks just before she’s leaning up into him with one hand at the back of his neck and the other on his forearm, that they’ve danced around since that first moment. Her magic purrs beneath her skin as Ichigo deepens the kiss, lips slanting over hers and hand threading through her hair. There are little _pings_ around her suddenly, and Rukia realizes that he’s dislodged any number of pins.

Then his mouth is at her throat, and she doesn’t care about the pins anymore. He doesn’t bite, doesn’t mark her, but his lips press soft and sweet against her skin before they drag lower, along the curves of her breasts where they hide just beneath her shirt. “I can feel it now,” Ichigo murmurs, voice husky with the beginnings of arousal. “Your magic against mine.” His hand is at the dip of her throat, plucking at jet buttons. “I can hear it purring for me.” His lips press to bare skin and Rukia’s breath hitches for him.

“I feel it too,” she rasps. “Your magic is saying _mine_ , telling me that I’m yours.” Little shivers of pleasure move through her as her skin heats, cheeks still flushed pink. Her hand squeezes reflexively at the back of his neck and Ichigo leans up to kiss her again, tongue tracing the seam of her lips before they part on a little gasp and he can lick into her mouth.

His eyes are heavy-lidded and dark whenever they part long enough for him to look at her, and she sees herself reflected in his gaze. It’s nearly full dark outside when they finally part and he murmurs, “I should get you home,” low and husky in her ears. His shirt is partly unbuttoned, her jacket is draped over a hanging spider plant, and Rukia’s breathing is uneven even though his hands have only strayed to her hips once.

“Yes,” she whispers back, but regretfully.

“Let me – we need to find your hairpins,” Ichigo mutters ruefully, and they laugh together, magic bubbling and twining between them.

It takes another few minutes to find the dozen pins he dislodged, and Ichigo has to help her put her hair back together, his large hands gentle and surprisingly sure. The tea is ice cold but Rukia takes a bracing sip just the same to cool her warmed cheeks before she buttons up her shirt and his. He helps her into her jacket, and then they are as repaired as they can be – heated cheeks aside. Well, heated cheeks and other things aside. Rukia’s suddenly grateful for her thick, layered cotton skirts.

Ichigo hails a carriage for hire and Rukia gives the coachman her address; despite the privacy of the carriage they sit apart except for their hands, which twine together in the darkness. “We didn’t actually practice mental shielding,” he points out as the carriage pulls up outside her townhouse.

Rukia’s smile is only a little shy as she opens the carriage door. “We’ll have to use the solarium again, then,” she murmurs, and blushes at Ichigo’s answering grin.

As the carriage drives off and a butler bows her into the townhouse, Rukia’s magic prickles and heaves beneath her skin – already missing him.

But of course: they see each other again at school the next day, and it is all Rukia can do not to blush at the sight of him, eyes warm when they see her and lips parting to say, low and a little husky, “Good morning, Rukia.” She doesn’t even need his magic, brushing against hers, to know that it’s “good night” that he’s thinking.

_June_

The Season has brought with it a half dozen engagements and two marriages. Ichigo isn’t among them, but there have been whispers since March that he and Rukia are _developing an attachment_ , though they are careful not to irk the dowagers whose disapproval could cause a scandal. Ichigo has been careful to dance with her only twice at each ball, but Rangiku teases them for stealing away from the other unmarried guests when Ichigo sweeps her away afterwards, bringing her champagne on some nights and tea on others.

Still, Rangiku proves a willing ally at the Ishida ball in early June, as does Ichigo’s brother-in-law, when Miss Orihime Inoue patiently stalks Ichigo like a deer hunter in a peach-hued gown. His magic seethes under his skin, prickly and angry at her very presence. He grumbles at his sisters and chases off Miss Hinamori with a scowl so fierce she’s nearly in tears. He doesn’t mean to upset Hitsugaya’s adoptive sister; he’ll have to apologize to her later – but his magic is roiling and _pissed off_.

He’s planned poorly tonight, dancing a second time with Rukia far too early and lingering a little too close because her hand on his forearm radiates a soothing coolness and her magic calms the spikes in his.

“Something’s wrong tonight,” Rukia murmurs to him as their second dance draws to a close. “I can feel it.” She keeps her expression schooled to near-indifference but Ichigo can see her concern in the shape of her eyebrows and the tension of her lips.

“I told you that there are some people my magic won’t tolerate,” Ichigo murmurs back and then spins with her as the music dictates.

She glances away and sees longing and a hint of jealousy in grey eyes, tension in a body with voluptuous curves. “Ah,” Rukia says when she looks up at him again. “ _She’s_ why you wouldn’t stay in the shielding class that morning? But she’s beautiful.”

Ichigo scowls and twirls her again. “ _You’re_ beautiful,” he corrects, and feels his cheeks heat. “And I don’t – I don’t like the way my magic feels near her.” The dusting of pink on Rukia’s cheeks is sweet, but it’s her eyes, soft and vulnerable, that makes him want to kiss her, right there on the dance floor. He remembers the feel of her in his arms in the solarium just a few nights ago, the way they fit just right against each other.

“She’s been at other events, though,” Rukia points out. “She followed us through the Asano art exhibition last week.”

Ichigo flushes at the memory. They’d slipped away from the exhibit to kiss in Keigo’s _office_ of all places, hiding from the rest of the guests. But tonight – tonight is June sixteenth, and he’d have stayed home if he could have avoided offending his cousins. “Tonight’s different,” he mutters.

They step away from one another as the music dictates, but when they come back Rukia murmurs softly, “I can feel it in your magic. I’ll listen, if you want to tell me.”

Here, he can’t do what he wants: touch his forehead to hers, kiss her again. But his hand squeezes her waist lightly, and Ichigo sees the understanding in her eyes. “I will. Not here, but – I will.”

When the dance ends Ichigo escorts Rukia from the ballroom floor, and he can see Miss Inoue coming towards him. Rangiku comes to his rescue, grinning as she steals sweeps over in an emerald green gown and sparkling diamonds at her neck and ears.

“Come dance with me, Lord Kurosaki,” she trills, just a little tipsy. “You owe me a favor, after all.” Then she winks, and some of the tension leaves Ichigo’s body.

“I’d be happy to dance with you, Lady Ichimaru,” he agrees, and with a proper bow to Rukia he leads Rangiku to the dance floor.

Hitsugaya doesn’t give anyone else a chance to trouble Rukia: he very properly bows over her hand and asks her to dance, leading her away before Miss Inoue can approach.

_August_

The Shiba summer estate and the Kuchiki estate are more than two hundred miles apart.

And it’s – a problem.

“Are you going to spend your _entire_ summer here?” Karin demands from the open doorway. Ichigo startles and turns, but she’s outside of the red markings that form a magic barrier.

His magic has been on edge since late June, spiking and lashing out at unpredictable moments. As June turned into July and then August, it’s been pointless to try and soothe it; all he can do is expend as much of it as he can, here in the gray, magic-proofed room at the Shiba estate. “Probably,” Ichigo grumbles.

“Is it because you miss Lady Rukia?” she asks perceptively, and smirks when Ichigo’s ears heat.

But. His sister is married, and both she and Hitsugaya have magic. “How does your magic feel around Toshiro?” he asks, as Karin steps further into the room, teal day dress sweeping around her legs.

His sister just blinks at him. “It feels…fine?” She blinks at him. “Our magic is compatible enough. Wait, is this because you can’t feel her _magic_?”

He clears his throat uncomfortably and kindles black fire, sharp and destructive, in his hands. “It started when we left town,” Ichigo admits. “And got worse the farther away from her we traveled.”

Karin’s snort is decidedly unladylike. “The great Marquess Kurosaki, felled by an ice mage.” But then she leans against the far wall and raises an eyebrow. “Do you think her magic is feeling…whatever this is? Withdrawal?”

He blasts a dummy with his magic, and it disintegrates immediately in the sheer heat. “I hope not,” Ichigo mutters.

“What about before you met her?”

Ichigo just shrugs. “I struggled with control but it didn’t feel like…this.”

Karin just smirks before slipping out the door. “Maybe you should ask her to marry you, older brother,” she teases, and shuts the door before he can reply that he’d like to do just that.

Two hundred miles east, Hisana wraps herself in another blanket and sips her tea, already gone lukewarm. “Rukia,” she murmurs softly. “Can’t you rein in your magic a little more?”

“I’m sorry, Hisana.” Rukia has the grace to flush, but her efforts to pull her magic under control result in only a slight increase in temperature. Her magic prickles and seeps from her, seeking – seeking _him_. She can at least admit that to herself. Her illusions are little better: at best they pucker and warp at the seams. At worst they become all too real.

She’s had to apologize to _three_ different maids for that.

“Your control is typically much better than this.” Byakuya’s voice is flat, and there is only a hint of disapproval in it, but her magic heaves again and Rukia has to reel it back in before she freezes them both.

“I am feeling unwell,” she manages. “Please excuse me.”

Behind her, she hears Hisana speculate that it must be because of _that young Shiba heir_ , and Rukia stumbles away as her magic flares again. She accidentally freezes a nearby vase of flowers into an ice sculpture.

 _This can’t continue_ , she thinks, and resolves to spend more time in the estate’s practice suites. She’ll reinforce every ice box in every village for a dozen miles, too, if she must.

The unsettled feeling continues in them both until the Urahara school re-opens at the tail end of August. The moment Rukia steps foot in London her magic begins to calm, but it’s not until she sees Ichigo again that it fully settles, resting easy beneath her skin.

Ichigo clearly doesn’t expect her to drag him by the arm up five flights of stairs to the balcony, ice blue skirts kicking around her the entire time, but he doesn’t protest even when the headmaster catches them and hides a grin behind his fan.

“ _What_ was that?” Rukia demands when they are safely shut away from the rest of the students and faculty. “My magic – malfunctioned for two months, which it hasn’t done since I was _sixteen_. What did you do to me, you idiot?” Not that it’s easy to stay angry and irritated when _he_ has dark circles beneath his eyes too, and looks like he’s lost weight.

“I didn’t do anything,” Ichigo protests. “My magic was a mess too!”

“I almost froze my _sister_!”

“I slept in my family’s practice room for a month so that I wouldn’t burn down the entire estate!”

 _That_ breaks her of her anger, as does the way their magic blankets them, and Rukia’s hand finds his. “I missed you,” she whispers.

“I missed you too,” Ichigo mutters in return and squeezes her hand before he slides his arms around her. “We’ll figure out what to do about our magic.”

“It feels fine now,” she murmurs, head resting against his chest.

“Still, we should talk to Urahara,” Ichigo murmurs, but when they turn he’s already there, opening the balcony doors and looking at them over the top of his ever-present fan.

“Lady Rukia, Lord Kurosaki,” he greets as they spring apart. “Allow me to help you fix your little magical problem.”

“How do you know about it?” Ichigo demands.

The fan snaps shut and Urahara smirks. “I know everything that goes on in my school, Lord Kurosaki. _Especially_ when two students show such a strong magical affinity.” They just stare at him, and he sighs. “Come downstairs, and I’ll teach you how to manage it so that you don’t burn my school down.”

It’s an endorsement of sorts, that Urahara trains them for two weeks; the man _never_ teaches anymore, Ichigo confides in Rukia later. Their control over their magic strengthens, and their magic is less volatile when they spend time apart.

Until December, that is.

_December_

“Have a drink with me! It’s almost the new year and we’ll be celebrating soon enough!”

“What will you say, when he asks who you’ve been seeing tonight?”

Amber-hued liquor splashes into crystal glasses and two hands, one rougher than the other, pick up the snifters. “I won’t be telling him until after Christmas. He’ll show up for the New Year’s celebration in his finest. What will you tell her?”

The glasses clink together lightly and two men sip their Scotch slowly. “She knows her duty.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?”

“Hn.”

“A toast, to the joining of two houses.”

“Indeed.”

“The Kuchiki girl’s engagement will be announced at their New Year’s Eve party in three days,” Isshin says during the soup course, and Ichigo’s stomach lurches.

“Engagement,” he repeats dully.

“It’s a very advantageous match,” his father says with a little grin on his face.

“Such a gossip,” Karin drawls, eyes rolling as she sips from a glass of watered wine. “Where did you even hear this?”

“From the dowagers,” Isshin crows, which means that it’s true. Ichigo catches the looks that his sister and brother-in-law give him; one is pitying and the other sympathetic.

“Who is she engaged to?” Hitsugaya asks and reaches out for his goblet of wine. He glances at Ichigo again, cerulean eyes there and gone.

Isshin shrugs, casually. “The dowagers don’t know. We’ll find out at the party, I’m sure.” He sips noisily from his soup bowl and adds, “to which the Duke _personally_ invited us. We will all be attending, as a family.”

Ichigo’s magic crawls, by turns angry and devastated, beneath his skin as his stomach gives another lurch. His fingers are so hot that when he picks up his glass to try and take a sip of wine, he feels the alcohol heat in his hand. He sets the glass down when the liquid actually begins to _steam_.

“Excuse me,” he says after a moment, and stumbles up from the table. “I’m suddenly feeling unwell.”

Isshin’s gaze is knowing as it follows his son from the table.

Ichigo storms out to the garden behind their townhome, servants jumping out of the way in the face of his obvious rage. _Thank god it’s cold,_ he thinks, because his entire body feels like it’s on fire. Briefly, he considers throwing himself in a snow drift, but the night air on his face is already soothing him.

It’s Yuzu who finds him half an hour later, wrapped up winter wool while he stands in a growing puddle of melted snow. “Come inside, Ichi,” she says softly. She takes a step back when Ichigo’s magic flares hot and melts the snow in a tree overhead, sending a rush of water from above.

“Who could she even be engaged to?” Ichigo doesn’t move from his spot as he asks the question. _And why didn’t she say anything to me?_

“Karin yelled at him until Toshiro took her home,” Yuzu tells him.

“Good,” he huffs, letting out a watery laugh, but when Yuzu comes closer he backs up a step. “Don’t – I’m still running too hot.” The puddle around him is getting bigger, and he really does think he’ll need to lie down in the snow so that he doesn’t burn the house down.

Yuzu stands with him for a long time and doesn’t say anything when his shoulders heave silently.

The moment Ichigo sees her at the school the next morning, the moment he feels her magic, he understands that Rukia had nothing to do with the so-called _engagement_. Her magic heaves against his and his wraps around her, visible in a faint shimmer that has Hisagi and Ikumi both raising eyebrows.

Ichigo and Rukia still don’t share every single class, and so Ichigo is in a room across the hallway when he feels her magic roil and is out of his chair, ignoring his professor as she opens her mouth to yell. Then the wave of magic hits them all and the screams start from the other room. The door to Rukia’s classroom is frozen shut; he melts the ice with a thought and flings the door open to find the entire room coated in shimmering blue ice. Several of the students are frozen as well, and Ikumi barges past him as Ichigo finds Rukia, wide-eyed and half-catatonic.

“L-Lord Kurosaki!” Miss Inoue says through chattering teeth, and Ichigo ignores her.

Heedless of the ice beneath him, Ichigo kneels at Rukia’s side and takes her hands in his, gently chafing them. “Rukia,” he murmurs. “Listen to me. You have to let go of the ice. You’re freezing everyone around you.” But she’s silent, hands still as they rest in his. Her magic _hurts_ , sharp and frigid against his like jagged icicles, but Ichigo stays close.

He lets his magic blanket hers and then spill out, melting the ice on the walls and warming the shivering, blue-lipped students around them. When Rukia’s eyes focus on his finally, Ichigo squeezes her hand and nods gently. “Let go,” he coaxes.

She’s managed it by the time Headmaster Urahara strolls into the room, but several students are still recovering from the sudden blast of cold. There’s a flurry of movement in the doorway; Ichigo turns his head slightly and sees Ikumi and Rukia’s professor speaking in low tones.

“Lord Kurosaki,” Urahara says finally. “Perhaps you can take Lady Rukia elsewhere until she settles herself?”

“Of course, Headmaster,” Ichigo murmurs. He pulls Rukia from her chair and then from the classroom altogether. She is still close to catatonic and eventually he lifts her into his arms to carry her up the stairs, feeling her shiver against him.

He places her onto a couch in the solarium, mutters, “don’t move,” and hurries into the dining hall, which isn’t even set up for lunch yet. “I need a pot of hot tea,” he demands from a passing staff member, whose eyebrows arch into her hairline at his brusque tone. “Lady Rukia’s had a bad shock.”

The elderly woman softens immediately. “Of course, Lord Kurosaki. Wait here,” she orders in return, and Ichigo waits impatiently as she puts together a tray with a large pot and two cups. There’s sugar and milk as well, and the woman looks at Ichigo’s slightly haggard appearance before adding several biscuits.

Rukia is sitting where Ichigo left her when he nudges the door open and sets the tray down; once again he locks the door. The tea he offers her a moment later is well-sugared, more than she usually likes, but eventually she accepts the cup and sips.

“What happened?” Ichigo asks when she’s drunk the entire cup and he’s poured a second one with less sugar.

Rukia’s hands are shaking around the teacup, and Ichigo covers them with his to steady her. “Byakuya told me that he’s…arranged a marriage for me,” she whispers, and Ichigo’s hands tighten around hers until the cup is in danger of breaking.

“To who?” he asks hoarsely. “My father told me last night but – he didn’t say who it was.”

“He wouldn’t say, either.” She breaks away from him to take another gulp of her tea. “When he told me I – I wasn’t very dignified about it. We had a fight and Hisana told me that I’d marry whomever her husband chose.”

It breaks his heart when her voice cracks, and Ichigo takes the cup from her so that he can gather her into his arms, magic wrapping and merging with hers in an attempt to calm her down. Rukia doesn’t protest; her head falls to his shoulder and her hands fist in his shirt to keep him close. The angry spikes of her magic soften beneath his by degrees, until he no longer feels like he’s trying to hold the magical equivalent of a pincushion. “What happened in the classroom?” he asks softly.

“Inoue,” she whispers, and Ichigo’s heart cracks again, because she sounds like she’s crying. “I don’t know how it got around so quickly, but she congratulated me on my engagement and said that she’s happy your _dance card_ won’t be so full.”

His magic spikes, warming the room until he manages to dampen it down again. “That was selfish of her,” Ichigo mutters, and pulls Rukia closer so that she is on his lap. His lips find hers, seizing her in a rough kiss that he hopes tells her how _he_ feels: that he doesn’t want Miss Inoue on a _dance card_ , that he wants _Rukia._ That he wants the woman who makes his magic sing.

She matches him like for like, passion simmering between them until their magic is a heady thing between them and her legs are straddling him, skirt bunched up so that he can press the growing bulge between his legs against the cotton-covered core of her. Rukia’s a live wire above him, so sensitive to his kiss and to the press of him that she’s moaning in his mouth, hips rocking into his.

The tea grows cold as Rukia shoves his jacket from his shoulders, as he plucks at buttons until the stays and chemise beneath are revealed to him. They’ve kissed like this before, shirts undone and her stays loosened, but when Ichigo pushes her skirts out of the way and trails fingertips along the open seam of her cotton-covered drawers, just barely touching her skin, her breath quickens and stutters.

“Ichigo,” she whispers, and he raises his head from between the soft, modest curves of her breasts.

“Let me touch you?” he asks in a soft murmur, watching her eyes, pupils dilated and irises a thin ring of purple around them. When Rukia nods he presses his lips to hers again, licking into her mouth and then dipping lower, careful not to leave marks as he kisses his way down her neck to her breasts.

They should be in class, but instead Ichigo practices a different sort of magic, brushing fingertips lightly along her petal-soft folds and grinning against her skin when he feels her shiver atop him, hears the gasp from her lips. Their magic softens as it twines while Ichigo touches a thumb to her clit. “Have you ever touched yourself here?” he asks, and watches the way her eyes flutter and widen, the way Rukia swallows down a moan.

“Yes,” she whispers. “I think of you when I do.” And there is a thrill in his chest and an answering heat in his cheeks as Ichigo dips his finger lower, drawing dewy moisture up so that he can brush slick, soft strokes against the bud hardening beneath his touch.

“Good,” he murmurs. He’s never done this before, but Ichigo follows the sound of her breathing and waits until she’s moaning for him, low and stifled by the back of her hand, to press a finger inside her. “Do you do this, slide your fingers inside yourself at night and think of me?” It makes him blush to ask her that question, but then she nods, eyes fluttering shut and slick covering his fingers.

“A-ah, your fingers are bigger though,” Rukia gets out, one hand leaving off clutching at his open shirt to find the back of his neck and draw his mouth back to hers.

Ichigo keeps his lips on hers, letting her quiet her moans on _him_ instead of her hand, as a second finger dips inside of her and his other hand presses flat against her back. He keeps her close as he thrusts, using just his fingers to drive her higher and watching through heavy-lidded eyes. She’s beautiful in his lap, flushed pink and sweat dampening her temples as her hips rock into his hand.

She falls apart in his lap with a stifled cry as Ichigo presses deeper, shuddering from the feel of her inner walls clutching at his fingers. There’s a little rush of slick that Ichigo licks from his skin when he pulls his hand from her, letting her watch him even though her cheeks are bright red. Soft pants leave her kiss-swollen lips and Rukia’s eyes are still dilated with her arousal. “That…that’s much better than my fingers,” she manages, flushing again at his smirk.

“Let me show you something else, then?” he whispers, and slides her from his lap when she murmurs her assent. He kneels for her, shoving the coffee table out of the way and nearly upsetting the tea set on his way down. He’s never been harder in his life, but he ignores that in favor of touching _her_ , of branding a memory of her pleasure into his very skin. He wants to brand the memory of him into her, too.

“We can’t do _that_ , what if—”

Ichigo’s hand finds hers, squeezing gently. “I don’t need to be inside you to make love to you,” he says roughly, and draws a slender leg over his shoulder. He parts her drawers again so that he can kiss his way along the exposed skin of her inner thighs before he licks into her, running his tongue over soft skin still flushed dark pink and a little puffy from his attentions, still wet with her slick.

She’s warm and heady against his tongue, and as Ichigo laps at her he watches, watches the way her breath quickens again and the way she grabs for his hand, for the sofa, for anything to anchor herself. “Ichi— _Ichigo,”_ she moans, and the sound of her saying his name like _that_ sends a thrill through him. “To- to the left, oh just _there,”_ when his tongue finds a particularly sensitive spot. He loves the sound of her voice guiding him, telling him what she needs. When she comes for him a second time, hips bucking helplessly against his mouth as her fingers clutch his hair, Ichigo licks up every drop and keeps her pleasure high until she squirms.

Rukia’s loose-limbed and soft against him as he scrubs a hand over his mouth and then pulls her close again, pressing his lips to hers. “What about you?” she mutters against his mouth, and Ichigo can’t help the way he shifts against her, trying to relieve the ache of wanting her. Watching her like that – his fantasies of her don’t even compare.

“I don’t want to make you –” and he starts in surprise when she slaps a hand against his chest and then grabs a fistful of his shirt.

“You’re not _making_ me do anything,” she huffs, and drags him closer. Her hands slide lower, finding the placket of his trousers, and her fingers are nimble as she unfastens it and pushes the charcoal wool from his hips. He’s not wearing drawers.

When her hand touches him Ichigo nearly tears a hole in the couch, so tightly does he grip it. Just the touch of one hand, soft and a little hesitant, is enough to nearly undo him. “Nn – Rukia,” he says roughly, as his head hangs over hers. “ _Please_.”

He doesn’t think she’s ever done this before, but there’s something instinctive about the way Rukia touches him, hand wrapped around his length and stroking as she threads a hand through his hair and kisses him. _He_ hasn’t done this before either, and before long Ichigo’s hips are rocking, thrusting into her hand as he tries to hold out, tries not to come too soon. She swallows his moans, the gasps of her name, and he pulls her closer, needing more of her against him.

“Do you think of me?” Her voice is soft in his ears and Ichigo drags his eyes open to focus on her as he chokes out her name.

“Always – g-god, Rukia. I _dream_ of you,” Ichigo gets out, voice breaking on her name.

Rukia watches him and then something wicked comes into her eyes. Her hand leaves him, and he’s ashamed of the whine that rattles in his throat, but then it’s back and she’s dragging her own slick over him and he groans her name again, body shaking above hers. He’s _so_ close, but they’re in the _school_ of all places, and he barely has the presence of mind to drag his handkerchief from his pocket.

She catches on even before he can say anything – the folded fabric is tugged from his hand and she’s still stroking and he stutters out, “I’m going to—” and she whispers _yes._ He buries his head in her shoulder when he comes, groaning her name into the softness of her neck as he spends himself in fabric. His magic heaves around them and hers balances it, softening the wave that washes over them.

It takes them a little while to settle as they kiss slowly, languidly, but eventually they have to come back to reality. He tucks himself away in his trousers and buttons up his shirt before helping her do the same with hers.

“Run away with me,” he says when their breathing is evened out and they’re tucked together on the couch. He presses his lips to her temple.

“What?” When her eyes meet his they’re reddened and damp. Ichigo kisses away the tears still sparkling on her cheeks, tasting the salt of her tears and the ice of her magic.

“Run away with me,” he repeats. “We’ll take a carriage north over the border. There’s a church—”

“We can’t run away, Ichigo.” Her voice is hoarse but firm, even though her hand is twined with his. “It isn’t honorable. And who knows what Byakuya agreed to? It could ruin him, and my sister.”

His hand tightens on hers. “You’d rather marry someone you don’t love?”

“Of course not,” Rukia says sharply, and meets his eyes with hers. “I’m going to ask him again to call it off, and – tell him that I want him to speak to your father.”

His lips press against her forehead and Ichigo tucks her closer. “I’ll talk to my father too. Three days isn’t long, but maybe…”

They don’t leave the solarium until the sun is low in the sky, and no one comes looking for them.

Three days isn’t long enough, and Isshin is “busy” whenever Ichigo tries to speak to him.

Watching her in her ivory finery, Ichigo takes a sip of his wine to wet his throat. It’s expensive stuff – the Kuchiki family has gone all out to impress their fellow nobles. The crystalline chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and the elegant buffet in the next room only add to that impression.

Ichigo wishes he were anywhere but here, watching Rukia clutch her hands when she thinks no one is looking. Any minute, her brother will announce her engagement and what they have together will end. It’s a physical pain in his chest to think of it, as it steals his breath. Much like she does: her skin is pale and creamy tonight, and her cheeks and lips are lightly rouged. The gown she wears clings to her slender form in all the right places, showing off the arms that just three days ago were wrapped around him, not to mention the breasts he wants to cup once more. Her skirt hides the thighs that have cradled him; it hides the place he has tasted and worshipped. Embroidery and beading sparkle at the modest neckline and hem of her gown; Ichigo thinks she looks like a snow princess come to life.

The thought of anyone else touching her, of any of the other men here stripping her of her finery, makes him _sick_. He thinks it might be doing the same to her: the rouge on her cheeks can’t hide her pallor or the way her eyes look just a little glassy. Rukia is a better actress than he gave her credit for: periodically she smiles at the appropriate moments and makes conversation with the other young women.

In the corner, musicians are setting up for another round of dancing, and Ichigo makes a decision. He leaves his wine glass with a passing waiter and crosses the ballroom to her. Fluttering fans greet him; even in late December the room is _hot_. Ichigo doesn’t blame Rukia or her friends – Lady Ichimaru and Lady Ise – for fanning themselves.

“Lord Kurosaki,” Rangiku greets cheerfully, fan openly flirting with him. Ichigo smirks and glances toward her husband, Gin, who raises his glass in a mock toast.

“Lady Ichimaru,” Ichigo says in return, but then he looks at Rukia, whose eyes are welling up, and his voice is soft as he asks, “Will you dance with me, Lady Rukia?”

“Lord Kurosaki…” Lady Ise says quietly, “it will only hurt more, later.” Rukia’s told her, then.

“I know.” But he doesn’t take his eyes from Rukia.

Rukia’s eyes meet his and she takes the hand he offers. “Yes,” she says, and allows Ichigo to lead her onto the dance floor.

Other couples surround them as the dance begins, and Ichigo knows that they stand out: her in ivory and him in pristine black, with brighter hair than every man at the reception. He bows to her, properly, and then she takes his hands again as they move together through the steps of the dance.

“Are you holding up?” he asks finally, when the dance has gone on for a few minutes in silence. He catches a glimpse of his father coming out of the buffet room, Karin and her husband following behind him.

Rukia’s hand stiffens in his and she meets his eyes only reluctantly. “I begged Byakuya not to go forward with the engagement,” she whispers. “He still wouldn’t tell me who he’s _sold_ me to.” Her voice holds a wealth of resentment even at low volume.

“Just say the word and we can still run,” Ichigo says quietly. “My father’s carriage is outside; we can be across the border by dawn.”

But she shakes her head gently. “I can’t dishonor my brother-in-law,” Rukia tells him softly. “I can’t disappoint my sister.”

His hand squeezes hers too tightly, but she doesn’t complain. Their magic is raw again, and it _hurts_ between them. Even with Urahara’s training there the magic strains.

The dance ends – and suddenly they are both out of time. Ichigo bows to her as etiquette dictates; he hates it, but Rukia deserves it and he won’t embarrass her here. At least, not this way – he’s still considering grabbing her and running for it, no matter her thoughts on the matter.

As the musicians finish their song Byakuya comes to the front of the room, impeccably dressed in black wool with his shoulder-length hair carefully tied back with a thong.

“Ah, there you are. Lady Rukia, may I escort you to the front of the room?” Isshin is suddenly just in front of them, looking cheerful and a little disheveled despite his evening suit.

Rukia’s eyes meet his again, but she politely says, “Thank you, Your Grace,” and rests her hand on his father’s arm.

Isshin grins at his son and demands, “Follow me. You don’t want to miss the announcement.”

When Ichigo growls quietly, “It isn’t like you to be cruel, old man,” Isshin just pats Rukia’s hand gently.

“So uncouth, my son. Whatever would your mother say?” he asks plaintively and pulls Rukia along toward Byakuya. Ichigo follows, hands clenched into fists.

They reach the front of the ballroom just as Byakuya raises a hand and the ballroom falls quiet as if by magic. Ichigo just wants to escape; Rukia looks so _helpless_ as she leaves Isshin’s side to stand near her brother-in-law at a gesture from him. He doesn’t want to watch this happen. When he tries to back up a step, though, Isshin’s hand is wrapped iron-strong around his forearm. “Just watch,” he says, voice low.

“Ladies, gentlemen, thank you for joining me this evening,” Byakuya begins, his deep, even voice carrying throughout the room. There must be nearly two hundred people in the ballroom. It’s so warm that Ichigo, who’s had half a glass of wine and nothing to eat all day, begins to feel a little lightheaded. But Byakuya is going on: “In just a few minutes, we will welcome the new year. And with that new year comes a new alliance between two of our great houses.”

Ichigo sways on his feet and Isshin steadies him with another grip on his forearm. He can barely hear Byakuya over the sudden, frantic pounding of his heart as he drones on for a moment about alliances and strengthened bonds; all he can see is Rukia’s eyes, violet and glassy.

“And that is why I am pleased to announce the engagement of my honored sister-in-law, Lady Rukia Kuchiki, to Ichigo Shiba, Marquess Kurosaki.”

Their eyes meet across the distance between them, wide and shocked, as Byakuya steps back and nods to him. Suddenly Isshin’s hand is against his back, giving him a shove, and Ichigo barely keeps his footing as he steps out of the crowd. He’s _shaking_ but grinning at her as his hands find Rukia’s – she’s no better, a beaming smile on her face and trembling hands gripping his. They steady each other and then turn to face the crowd, her left hand twined tightly with his right, as the audience applauds politely.

Bless Lady Ichimaru, she’s the most enthusiastic of the bunch, giving a cheer that takes the attention off of them as Ichigo turns to face his _fiancée_ once more. “Did – did you know?” he asks over the steadily-rising conversations around them.

“Idiot.” Her voice is shaky but affectionate. “He wouldn’t tell me _anything._ If I’d known I would have told you.” Rukia’s eyes are red-rimmed as she says the words and squeezes his hand again.

Ichigo’s not sure whether he wants to kill Byakuya and Isshin or worship both of them. When he chances a look at his father, the man is positively _smug_ , after all. But that can wait. Ichigo just _breathes_ , letting the tension of the past three days fall from his shoulders. Rukia is _his_ and he is hers.

Waiters come through the room bearing flutes of sparkling champagne, and Ichigo retrieves one for Rukia and a second for himself. It’s only a minute or so to midnight by the time every guest has a glass; Ichigo isn’t surprised when it’s _Isshin_ who leads the countdown – it’s too undignified for Byakuya.

As the day, and the year, turns over, the whole room toasts to the beginning of the new year, to the couple before them, and to brighter days ahead. Ichigo leans down and Rukia stands on her tiptoes so that they can kiss amidst the cheering, lips pressing together. Magic settles between them, purring contentedly.


End file.
